Parents Aren't Supposed to Bury their Children
by alyssialui
Summary: Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around. It's really a sad event when a parent has to bury his/her child. This is a drabble collection for all the parents who had to bury their children due to the War.
1. Amos Diggory

_A/N: Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around. _It's really a sad event when a parent has to bury his/her child. _This is a drabble collection for all the parents who had to bury their children due to the War. Now I'm just in my 20's. Never buried a child or lost someone in a war, so don't kill me if it's not a good representation._

_Summary: Amos says his final words to his son, Cedric. Edit (22/06/15): Someone pointed out to me that Mrs Diggory was quite alive, so I will not have her dead here._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

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**Chapter 1 - His Son's Funeral**

The coffin is lowered into the ground among the soft sobs and tears shed by those gathered around the hole. Many have come to pay their respects to the young man who was full of so much life, so much vigour and so much love for anyone he met.

At the beginning of the funeral, many had walked up to him and shared stories of his son's impact on their lives. Some were family members who could remember his son, the cute yet mischievous child who loved to poke fun but could always be counted upon to listen to any story or fear, whether or not he fully understood. Some were friends from school, sharing with him stories of his times at Hogwarts, some which his son had told him of and others which he hoped his son would have eventually gotten around to. His girlfriend had showed up too, her eyes a never-ending river of tears. He could tell that his son had had a great impact on her and hoped that she would remember him not like this, a body in a box, but as the man he was.

But now, as he stares at the faceless box disappearing below the earth, he wonders if he could take his own advice. He knows his son lies behind the oak finish, but the only other memory he can draw upon at the moment is that horrible night.

* * *

_A scream pierces the night air, snuffing out the sounds of the band and the chatter like a dying candle. Another scream, this one deeper is heard and then there is a commotion, people rising from their seats and trying to escape the confines of the stands._

_Amos stands as tall as he can. He is not a tall man but he must see what is happening about._

_Then someone shouts his son's name and he feels the cold settle in. It is his son they are clamouring about. It is his son that is causing the screaming._

_"He's back! He's back!" someone shouts desperately, but no one is really listening. Everyone is still looking at the ground, pointing and gasping._

_Amos pushes past the crowd. He must know. He must see for himself. He must-_

_He stops as he is met with the truth. His son's eyes stare straight into his, but there is nothing behind them. There is no joy, there is no sadness, there is no pain. There is nothing as his son is no longer there._

_He runs out onto the grounds and everyone parts before him. They know it is his son. They can see the pain on his face and hear his cries of sheer terror and disbelief, though he cannot hear them himself. All he can hear is the laughter of his son that is not matching the scene before him._

_He drops at his son's body, pushing off the scared boy who had been clutching him, and cradles it to his chest. The body is no longer his son. It is just a shell, but the resemblance causes him to break down. He wishes that his son were here, and he has a selfish thought where he wishes the scared boy on his left had switched places with his son._

_There is a flurry of motion. He and the boy are taken away from his son's body. He screams again as he watches others take his son's body in another direction. There is nothing he can do as they lead him away, widening the gap between father and son even further._

* * *

The hole is filled now, the grass and earth returned to its pristine state by magic, as if his son isn't laying six feet below. His wife and the other attendees have walked away to give him a few minutes alone with his son.

A lone tear is shed. He had already said all he could, every day and night since he held his body. He has prayed to all gods for the safe passage of his son's soul. He has offered up all his sins and forgiveness, hoping that his son would understand that though he was not a perfect man, he truly loved him. He has even bargained with lesser gods to trade places with his son, though he knows that is even less likely. When souls are called home, no other can go in their place.

He pats the tombstone twice and says, "I love you, Cedric," before walking towards the crowd.


	2. Molly Weasley

_A/N: Molly wants the world to see her son the way he died, as a hero. RxR. FXF._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

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**Chapter 2 - They Should See Him As A Hero, Not A Victim**

His casket had to be closed and that made it worse for her. The damage to his face was extensive and others may find it too gruesome to see. She would not get to look at her baby one last time. She would never see his eyes light up as he happened to get one over her, she would never see that dazzling smile that was permanently on his face. She would never hear 'I love you, mum' greeted in the morning and whispered in the night.

They decided to have the funeral in a church. Though they weren't a strictly religious family, they thought their son deserved the very best. He would go home to his maker, whoever that maker was, in the finest clothes and the most reverent way.

She had tried to keep the gathering as small as she could: this was a private occasion for friends and family. What she didn't realize was just how many friends he had made. It showed her just how much her son meant to everyone. He had touched all their lives in a special way and they had all come to see him one last time.

She cried out, not the first time and not the last. She was the grieving mother. She hadn't been there when he died and she regreted it everyday. If she had been there, she could have stopped the crumbling wall, she could have moved him out of harm's way, she could protect her cub.

She had seen him afterwards, when all the bodies were collected and Percy had practically ran to her with tears in his eyes with the news. They huddled around his body horrified by the damage but unified as one family as they said their last goodbyes.

She jumped suddenly from her seat at the front of the church, startling everyone and halting the woman who had been singing the slowest song she had ever heard. She rushed to the coffin and threw the lid open to admire her son's face. He was beautiful, her darling angel, the injuries showing that he was a warrior until the very end.

She broke down right there, for all the world to see, clutching the side of the coffin for support but she did not care. She had always been strong but this was her son. If she would break down in front of anyone, it would be him.

She thought someone would have told her to leave, to close the lid so they could continue the sermon, but no one did. Instead all the guests lined up to see his face just like her. They wanted to see him in his last moments, not all a victim but as a hero.

Her husband and her family came around her, they too standing around his coffin proudly. She rose and turned into her husband's chest, her tears dampening his robes and he held her close. She brushed the fringe of her son's hair to the left, the way she liked it and he would pretend not to but still did to please her. Her son, the hero.


	3. Andromeda Tonks

_A/N: Andromeda is completely alone as she was abandoned by her old family and has now lost the family she made._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

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**Chapter 3- Losing Her Family Once More**

She had stayed home with Teddy that night. She would have wanted to be there, to protect her daughter from all evil and help in the fight against the dark, but her grandson needed her. And as the dutiful grandmother, she stayed while her daughter and son-in-law had perished.

She loves him so much and is glad to have him in her life. He is so precious to her but he is just a baby, parentless before his first birthday. He will never know how his mother's hair would always turn turquoise whenever she looked at him, or her laugh that would turn into snorting if she found something exceedingly funny. He would never know his father, who thought he was dangerous but had such love and care in his eyes for him that he could never harm him, who would have loved to teach him and guide him through all of life's obstacles.

When she heard the news, she had become mute, shocked into disbelief. There was no way what they had told her could be true. They were amazing, brave and strong. They could not have been taken out by Dolohov, who she had known in her youth as illiterate and idiotic, and Bellatrix, her own sister who was evil re-incarnate. But soon, everything sunk in, and she crashed to the floor in a puddle of tears. It had taken everything for those around her to pull her back up and put together the pieces of her heart, though they were only held by thin strings and glue.

She was gone: her daughter who was so clumsy that she had to baby-proof the furniture well into her teens, her daughter who she spent days in the kitchen with making cookies and pastries, just enjoying their time together, her daughter who would always try to make her smile whenever she felt down. She was gone.

They had fought valiantly, she knows they did, and she should be proud that they died fighting for the good of others and what they believed in. But they had left her and now she was alone. She had lost her husband a few months before. That had been rough, but her daughter was there for her then. Now who would be here for her now?

There are footsteps behind her and a young man comes to stand beside her holding the sleeping infant. The young boy breathes softly, his dreams filled with dancing fairies and gumdrops, not of war and destruction, not of his mother or his father. The man remains silent, staring between her and the twin graves before them.

She turns up head up to the sky, her tears seeping out the corners of her closed eyes. She wishes it was her and not her husband, not her daughter, not her son-in-law. She had abandoned her old family to make her own and now it was just her once more, alone.

She shakes her head to remove such horrid thoughts. She will not mar their memories with those of her horrible past, her family who decided to throw her out. Her grey hair comes free of its immaculate bun from the sudden movement and drops down to her waist. The tears travel down her pale skin and pool under jaw, however the makeup she put on remained still intact.

There is a hand on her shoulder and she looks to the right at her companion before he pulls her into him, careful not the crush the infant between them. She cries on his shoulder, she is not ashamed for her tears or for her loss. She can feel him shudder underneath her for he has lost something too - the last tie to his parents. They comfort each other, mourning their loss but celebrating the lives and the child they left behind.


	4. Mr Creevey

_A/N: Mr Creevey and his family have a private moment at Colin's grave. RxR. FxF._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

**Chapter 4 - Tears That Will Not Come**

It's hard for a parent to bury their son who hadn't even been given a chance at life. His son, barely past puberty, had been cut down in a battle for a world he knew nothing of. One of the professors had come to them the day afterwards, explaining his son's role in the fight and admiring his bravery and courage. Her words, though well-intended, were not comforting. Nothing she said would reverse the death of his son.

If he had known that this would be his fate, his son in a oak box, he would have never sent him to that blasted school. But then he thinks to himself, he remembers the look of excitement and wonder on his son's face when he had received that letter, and he knows he would not say 'no', even if it were to happen again.

He had always known his son would be special. From the moment he lay eyes on him in the hospital, he knew there was something different about him. He had a kind spirit and a spark of wonder that never quite left him, even into his teens.

He would leave them at the end of every summer and constantly write back, sending an assortment of pictures with his letters. He wanted his parents to be involved in this new world just as much as he was. He wanted them to see all the gadgets and gizmos, colours and shapes, that he saw on a regular basis. He never forgot them, just as they would never forget him.

Then it was another surprise when his second son got a letter as well. He and his wife were told it was rare for this type of thing to happen, two wizards born in the same 'muggle' family, but not impossible. He saw his first-born's eyes light up and eager to share his new world with his younger brother, and he saw the conviction in his face as he promised to look out for him. Nothing would happen to him under his older brother's watch.

His wife cries out beside him, her handkerchief soaked with spilled tears. She wishes that he hidden out with the other students. She wishes that he stayed safe. She wishes she had kept him home. He would be here. He would be alive.

But he knows that his son would not have wanted to sit idly by while such danger was about. He was brave boy, always looking out for others, just as he had promised to his brother, even when the danger was greater and larger than himself.

It is the day after the funeral and it is a private family gathering, the three of them standing before his grave. They had buried him in the cemetery behind their church, his death labelled as mysterious for they couldn't tell others that their fifteen-year-old son had died in a war that was kept secret from the world.

He stands there angry and confused as he stares at the tombstone. His son lays beneath his feet and he has not shed one tear since his death and he wonders why. Doesn't he miss his son dearly? Shouldn't he be a blubbering mess like his wife and his other son? Instead he is resilient and refusing to cry. His voices his worries out loud, chastising himself for not caring enough about his son.

A soft hand grabs his and he looks at his other son, the one who still a part of the world that had caused them so much grief. There is a sad smile on his face as he wipes the tears away. "He would have wanted us to be strong, not to mourn his loss."

He nods and brings his family close. They all place a hand on his tombstone with more joyous memories of him in mind. He would not want them to mourn his death but to celebrate his life.


	5. The Browns

_A/N: The Browns pay their respect to their daughter on the first anniversary of her death. RxR. FxF._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

**Chapter 5 - She's Our Little Girl Forever**

She had been bitten they said. Some even said it was better she had died or she would have been damned to a miserable life. She would turn with the full moon, her thirst for blood strong and her need to be restrained constant. She would be hunted and possibly killed just for being something she didn't intend to be, something someone else made her. It was for the best.

Have they ever lost a daughter? Have they ever had to see her wide eyes unstaring back at them? Have they ever had to see a gaping hole where her throat use to be? When they have, they can come and talk to us. They can tell us what is best for her.

They never had to take home their daughter's bloody body. They never had to sit with a funeral director to find the best place to bury her, or explain how to fix her so that the hole wouldn't be seen.

In the end, there was nothing the funeral home could do to hide the wound that would give our daughter the respect she deserved. But unfortunately, the wound was just too much to see, so we picked a closed casket affair.

We had the service at home, with our family and just a few of her closest friends. All of our family have been buried on the hill behind the house: grandparents, aunts, uncles and now a daughter. We always thought it would be the other way around: our daughter would stand before our tombstones and mourn our passing. Instead, we had to see her put to rest under the shade of the large tree that watched over them all.

It's been a year to the day that she had lost her life in that battle. Since then, we just haven't been the same. We hear her laughter echo off the walls, always coming from her room which we haven't been in since. We see her dancing in the living room, which she loved to do ever since she was 5. We can hear her talking on the phone, the muggle device her friend had convinced her to buy because of its novelty.

Her birthday passed about a month ago. On that day, we broke down in tears together staring at her baby pictures, trying to remember the little girl she used to be and not the bloody teen we took home. We prayed from the depths of our hearts that her soul was at rest wherever it may be.

Today, we stand out here on the hill, the wind blowing the leaves of the tree that shades all the graves. We pay respect to all the deceased but today is her special day. We place the flowers of her namesake around her grave, her favourite simply because they were named especially for her, not the other way around. We remember her as she would have wanted to be remembered.

She is not a monster. She is our little girl, and we would give anything to have her back, whether she became a monster or not. We will love her as we always did. She is our little girl forever.


	6. Crabbe Snr

_A/N: Even the other side suffered losses as well. Crabbe Snr hears of his son's death and regrets ever joining this war. Thanks for reading up to this point as it seems to be the end. Now I don't know any more children deaths in the books, so if you guys do, please leave them in a review or PM me._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter._

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**Chapter 6 - I Am A Murderer**

I chose the wrong side a long time ago thinking I was doing the right thing. Everyone I knew was doing it, it was the pureblood thing to do, and that man was so persuasive, but I'm just making excuses really. I could have stayed away and done something else. There were a few purebloods that stayed out of the whole mess but I thought I was doing the right thing for my family.

They have rounded me up with many of the others. We are the spoils of the war that didn't just die in the line of fire. We will await trial and see justice served but I don't see much hope for me.

Someone comes to me with news and I wonder what's so important that they must talk to me just before they take me away.

_Your son perished in a fire._

My son. Perished. In a fire.

I laugh and the others must think I'm mad, sadistic and proud that my son died fighting for the same cause I did. But this is not a laugh of the arrogant and vain. This is the laugh of the broken who, looking back on his life, realizes just how messed up it is, how so much has happened in such a short time and that it has befallen them because their own actions.

It is my fault my son is dead. It is my fault for choosing a life that put him at the mercy of a fire. It is my fault that I'm going to jail with no real hope of coming out on the other end unscathed.

But with this news, I don't want to come out. There is nothing left for me now. My wife died years before and now my only son is gone before his time: my son whom everyone said looked just like me, my son who tried to gain my approval daily though I never gave it, my son who probably thought he was finally doing the right thing and following his father's footsteps, my son who I can't even see laid to rest for I am being placed in my own stone coffin.

There is another manic laugh, tears forcing their way out the corners of my eyes from how wide my mouth splits and I find I don't care that they think I'm mad. I don't care that they're taking me away. They can leave me there to rot for eternity.

This is what I deserve. I am a murderer. I am a father who killed his own son.


End file.
